Walk in the Moonlight
by Motaki
Summary: Splitoff of The Dark Side of the Moon, but can be read separately. Welcome to the world where nothing is true, and everything is permitted. Chapter nine, "Filthy Half-Breed": Everything was going just fine, John thought. He'd made it to Venice, and picked up his companion for the trip. But he'd gotten paired with Sherlock bloody Holmes, who had to get into a fistfight. Of course.
1. Una Buona Vita

The tale of Sherlock Holmes… the way it would have been, if one tiny variable had been different.

This is another splitoff of _The Dark Side of the Moon-_ except it's a multichapter rewrite. You should be able to read this without having read _The Dark Side of the Moon._ Now, since my enthusiasm could not be contained and people begged and I gave in before I could properly set the basic plotline, let me explain our differences, okay?

Things You'll Recognize:

-Lydia is still alive.

-Sherlock's parents are still alive.

-Sherlock's mother's name has been changed from Lydia to Siobhan, to avoid confusion. I had a brain-derp while originally writing and didn't notice that I used the same name twice.

Things You _Won't_ Recognize: _{Warning: spoilers for The Dark Side of the Moon}_

-Seraphine, Sherlock's younger sister by four years, survived.

-Sherlock never went through electroconvulsive therapy to erase the memory of his father murdering his sister. Hence, he never has the flashbacks that occur in _DSOTM,_ or the final realization that, by my calculation, will happen somewhere around chapter 150.

I'll let you figure out the rest. We're Sherlockians. We're the smartest fandom in the world, dammit.

Okay. Enough of me. Let's start the story.

_My penname is Motaki, and I am very proud and honored to present…_

_Walk in the Moonlight_

1: _Una Buona Vita_

(Written for ThoroughlySherlocked and Lo613, as a Christmas present, and to anyone else who wanted to see this.)

She would never clearly remember the first time.

Mycroft could recite every last detail of it; Sherlock pushed it to the very back of his memory and tried to pretend it had never happened.

But it had. It'd been the start of eight years' hell on earth for him.

She very clearly remembered the second time, though- like a laser's marks on glass. How could you _possibly_ forget- in any amount of years, in any lifetime- the sight of your brother fighting for your life, the sound of his bones snapping as he was thrown up against the wall?

The color of his blood, spilled so hers wouldn't be?

Mycroft, leaning over Sherlock's thin, too-still frame, looking at her over his shoulder and shouting at her to call an ambulance; her mother, standing nearly catatonic- make that properly catatonic in the doorway; realizing that all these years, _all her life, he'd been shielding her from _that _and she hadn't even __**known-**_

She tried not to think of it.

And she tried, very hard, not to think too hard about what Sherlock was doing when he wasn't around her.

They'd fled to Italy during the divorce. Thankfully, it was a country very capable of being distracting…

*

"This really does seem to happen to us far too often," he breathed, the words fogging in the cool air.

"You don't say," the other replied, her voice dry as her shoulders pressed against his, her eyes sweeping her side of the street. "That's the understatement of the century, right there. Understatement of the bloody century."

Her companion- four years her senior, her brother- rolled his eyes. "Really, Seraphine. Don't get carried away with yourself."

"You're one to talk." She pulled in a breath, preparing.

_"Insieme,"_ her comrade murmured, and she felt his muscles tense. _Together._

_"Insieme,"_ she agreed, bracing. His fingers touched her wrist, a silent countdown: _three, two, one…_

They both lunged forward at the same time, methods varying slightly: he took advantage of his height and seized his opponent in a headlock, quickly putting them into a chokehold, patiently waiting until they went limp.

Seraphine, in the meantime, took a much more direct approach and ducked behind her enemy before jumping up and delivering a sharp blow to the base of his skull, knocking him unconscious.

"I took mine faster," she called.

Her brother rolled his eyes, disengaging from the limp form. "Mine had a lesser chance of failure."

"Come _on,_ Sherlock," Seraphine whined, "probabilities are a fine thing in concept, but in reality, my method was more practical! Yours could have easily reached up and clawed your eyes. It also took much more time, which, if there had been more of them, is a disadvantage. With mine, I could just turn away and move on to the next one."

Sherlock snorted. "Right. But my knuckles don't hurt, do they?"

Seraphine gave him a death-glare, rubbing her admittedly-sore fingers. "They do not," she muttered.

And then her eyes brightened.

"My lip isn't bleeding."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he touched his lip, inspecting his fingertips.

Seraphine grinned. "Might want to have that looked at. Your pretty face is your only asset."

_"Fottiti,"_ Sherlock cursed, giving her an intense glare before turning away. "It's just a scratch."

"No, _that's_ the understatement of the century," Seraphine decided, trotting up beside him. "Half your face is covered in blood."

"Biggest _overstatement_ of the century," Sherlock returned, rubbing at it with his sleeve. "It's no more than a quarter of my face. I'm perfectly fine."

"Suppose you'd be up for a race, then?"

She knew her brother, and competition never failed to rouse him.

"Where to?"

"Roof of that church," she offered, nodding towards it.

Sherlock considered.

"What about the top of the tower? Or-" he smirked- "is that too much for you?"

"On my count, then," he challenged, lowering his stance into a crouch that she imitated. _"Uno… due… tre."_

She went for the streets; he lunged for the building opposite, jumping up and seizing a windowsill, climbing from there onto the roof. There, it was child's play to jump to the next.

"My baby sister still has much to learn," Sherlock called down to her; she looked up at him, still on the street. "Do you remember nothing I taught you? Come on!"

She looked around frantically, trying to find something to use to her advantage.

"Look up," Sherlock advised, jumping to the next roof. "Don't just stay on the ground. Does an eagle fly if he never spreads his wings?"

And _there_ it was, a flare of realization; he watched as she jumped, grabbing on to a piece of decoration on the church's walls.

He had to ring around, taking a route that cut her away from his line of sight; she reached the rooftop first, but he overtook her when she stood before the tower, trying to decide how to climb it.

Having done it several times before, it was easy: _use the foothold, grab the mismatching brick that protrudes, climb along the edge of the decorative rim just below the wind on the other side, going to the left side of the tower. Climb the window, grab the edge of the roof…_

He pulled himself up, turning around to watch.

She'd followed him fairly well, but now hesitated below where the stone flanged out into a ledge barely big enough to hold on to.

_Unsure if she can do it, if it'll hold her weight…_

She looked up at him- _figuring if it worked for me it'll work for her-_ and then boldly grabbed it, beginning to edge around the tower.

She climbed the window, and took his hand, holding on with a vicelike grip as he pulled her up.

"If only every day could be so much fun," she said to him. "Oh, wait… they are."

They both laughed quietly. Sherlock walked towards the edge of the rooftop, sensing more than seeing Seraphine come to his side.

"It's a good life we lead, brother," she murmured, putting an arm around his waist as they both looked over Florence, the city coming alive with lights to ward off the night. "May it never change."

A part of his heart seemed to hitch.

"And may it never change us," Sherlock whispered, resting his hand on her shoulder.

**

For _The Dark Side of the Moon,_ it was _Skyrim._ For _Walk in the Moonlight,_ it's _Assassin's Creed._

To finish the first part of what will be an epic journey, I'll give you this:

"_Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."_


	2. Leap of Faith

Leap of Faith

2

"We should get home. Mother will be wondering where we are."

"Yes," Seraphine sighed, reluctant to move from her spot where her back rested against the base of the cross.

Sherlock, still standing, watched the city move below.

Neither of them particularly wanted to be the first to break the silence, to signify the return to reality from the quiet world that seemed untouchable.

"Well, come on, then," Sherlock reminded her quietly after an indeterminably long silence. "I'd prefer to avoid another lecture."

"Oh, God, not the lectures," Seraphine groaned, standing. "Anything but the lectures."

She went towards the edge of the roof that lead to the rooftops; he, towards the streets.

They both stopped, staring at each other.

"What are you doing?"

"No, what are _you_ doing?"

"There's nothing that way," Seraphine pointed out.

"That way takes too much time," Sherlock returned.

"Oh, so you're going to just go kamikaze and jump into the streets?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I like to call it a _leap of faith."_

"Leap of stupidity, you mean."

"You doubt yourself too much. And me. It's been two years. I haven't died, so far. Stop looking at me like I'm going to disappear."

Called out on her fears, Seraphine looked away.

"Now watch," Sherlock said, stepping to the edge. "If I can hit that cart over there…"

"You're suicidal. It's too far."

Sherlock smirked.

"A challenge, sister dear?" he queried.

Before she could reply, he jumped.

The air clawed at his skin, ripping through his hair; it was ridiculously simple, through experience's guide, to aim like a diving bird and hit the target.

_Moroccan sand mining: ecologically irresponsible, practically useful,_ Sherlock thought, rolling the fall slightly as the sand absorbed the force of the fall. Not the best landing surface, but it was plenty sufficient.

He stood, dusting himself off casually- taking no small amount of joy in the utter bewilderment of the driver of the car behind the truck- and then smoothly vaulted over the edge of the sand's container, mentally thanking the poor state of the Italian traffic system that caused long backups.

When the driver's _what the fuck_ was audible enough for him to hear over the sounds of the city, Sherlock grinned, looking over his shoulder; Seraphine was climbing down the church's tower, having opted out of what she regarded as, _quote,_ the _"leap of stupidity"._

"Baby sister still has much to learn," Sherlock murmured, and climbing to one of the balconies of the apartment complex in front of him, took off at a sprint.

*

The tiny little inconvenience about living under the radar- scratch that, so far incognito and anonymous that according to official records it looked like somebody had kidnapped you two years ago- was that you had to make insane detours on your way home that multiplied your journey's length at least five times over.

But it was much, _much_ better than the alternative, Sherlock remembered instantly, his fingers instinctively brushing the six-inch scar on his chest that went cleanly along the center of his ribcage. Infinitely, indescribably better than the alternative.

He raised his hand, knocking on the nondescript-by-design door three times before entering.

The signal was wholly unnecessary, as his mother wasn't there to hear it, apparently. She rarely was.

If she had been, he would have received an intense lecture about how irresponsible it was to leave his sister to wander Florence alone.

Never mind he'd spent countless hours painstakingly teaching Seraphine the way home from thirty different points in the city, given her failsafe directions to each of those points, and then- for good measure- shared twenty-seven techniques of incapacitating an attacker inside of a span of three to five seconds.

And twelve for killing them once they were down.

But Mummy Holmes didn't need to know that, Sherlock had decided. And Seraphine could sleep just as easily without knowing that he'd doubled back and followed her for most of the way before he was certain she could make it the rest of the trip.

The house wasn't much; two floors, with the second not having an open commons area like the lower, instead being a strip of exposed doors with a railing preventing anyone from falling from the walkway to the first floor. Not many rooms, not much space, Sherlock mused, picking his violin off of a chair by the door (nudging it shut with his foot) and inspecting it, mentally counting down.

Two marks early, the knob rattled, followed by a quiet Italian curse; there was a louder _bang_ as Seraphine threw her shoulder against the door.

Amused, Sherlock opened it.

"You pull it. It opens outward. You keep pushing it. It's a guard against the precise method you were just exercising."

Seraphine snarled quietly. "Damn the blasted bloody thing, for all I care, it's bloody irritating, I can never get it right-"

Sherlock snapped his wrist, giving her a merciless smack across the back of her head with the bow of his violin.

She yelped, jumping away and pressing a hand to the spot. "What did I do to deserve _that?"_

Sherlock gave her an odd look. "You were bitching too much. I found it distracting."

He made as if to play his violin, turning away before looking back over his shoulder.

"…and you're just being pissy because you got outsmarted by a door."

In a shameless flaunt of superiority, he walked away, while playing the violin.

He could see her reflection in a mirror on one of the pillars opposite, and saw the exact moment when the irritated-furious expression slipped from her face, when her eyes went quietly sad.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

"You're going out tonight."

The violin became silent.

"How do you know?"

"That song," Seraphine pointed out. "The setting varies, but it's like a diamond in a ring; the centerpiece is the same. That's the theme, right there, you just played it without even thinking about it. Your mind's on something else even while you're having a conversation with me, because every single time you play that, you're gone the next night."

She stepped forward, reaching up and pressing her hand to his face.

"And you're always so distant after those nights, _fratello miniera,_"she said softly. "You're cold and distant, and I never know how long it will take for you to become yourself again.

She stepped back, and he had a quick sensation of something heavy dropping into his stomach.

_So, this is the day. I didn't think it'd be this soon…_

"What is it that you're doing, on the nights that you disappear, when you're gone so late? What burden is it that you carry on your shoulders when you return?"

He took a breath to steady himself before dropping on to one knee, setting the violin aside before resting his hands on his sister's shoulders.

"When you're older than you are now," Sherlock told her, "and you're certain that you want to know the answer to that question, ask me again. But not now. Alright?"

Seraphine sighed, briefly touching his wrist.

"Alright."

**

_Chapter three, "Florentine Shadow", is underway_


	3. Florentine Shadow

Florentine Shadow

3

The leather tasted familiarly bitter. He doubted that even if all traces of the chemical compounds used to tan the hide were washed out of it, the taste would ever disappear.

It would remain psychosomatic. The mind was a powerful thing.

He pulled on the lace in his hand, tightening the bracer on his forearm. Satisfied, he tied it into a secure knot, flexing his hand, testing mobility before picking up the other bracer and inserting his other arm into it.

Once that was done, he twisted his elbow so that the underside of his forearm faced the ceiling. He clenched his hand into a fist, pressing his fingernails into the heel of his hand, brushing against a small metal plate.

The blade instantly sprang into position, nearly a foot long and serrated at the base.

Sherlock half-smiled, twisting his wrist slightly to watch the light dance on the steel before tapping the small trigger-plate again, causing it to retract instantly.

He reached for the mobile device on the dresser, bypassing the lock screen and checking it for any new messages, but there were none.

Just to make sure, he pulled up a specific one.

_If you could eliminate him quietly, without anyone noticing, it would be ideal. Preferably, he goes nice and quietly. You understand?_

Sherlock flicked to a different screen.

_SH162.0017:_ Moving into position. Contract #78 to be completed tonight.

_EH161.28:_ Don't the Italians have a saying for such things? Ah… _"In bocca al lupo",_ I think.

_SH162.0017:_ Very appropriate. It's our equivalent of 'break a leg'. _"Crepi il lupo"_ is the appropriate response, as far as I've been informed.

_EH161.28:_ 'Into the mouth of the wolf' and 'kill the wolf' as the reply? Very appropriate. Good luck.

_SH162.0017:_ I'll need it.

_You have disconnected_

Sherlock pocketed the mobile, flicking up the collar of the black ankle-length cloak he wore before pulling up the hood.

Shadows, he thought, were the perfect thing to imitate: they were impossible to catch.

Wars could be waged in them, of secrets, blood and corruption, and be easily hidden.

_What is it that you do, when you're gone at night?_

_Oh, Seraphine,_ Sherlock thought wistfully, _if only you knew._

He vaulted over the sill of the window in his bedroom, dropping on to the streets below and disappearing.

*

And some secrets could weigh on your heart like a stone, when you knew you had to hide them from everyone, even your family.

Firenze was a lonely place to walk at night, if you weren't seeking company; granted, while the underworld _did_ thrive, nobody in their right mind would approach someone in all-black that was clearly armed to the teeth.

And that, Sherlock thought, was much to the misfortune of a certain Dante Perin, originally of Venice, come to Florence as a smuggler of massive proportions.

He stood before the building's face, tilting his head back to take it in, a soft mist falling from the sky and clinging to his skin. The cloak became damp, weighing on his shoulders as the physical manifestation of a mental burden.

_If I climb that roof, there's no going back._

The whole reason for it was the same thing that had brought the smuggler to the lofty height that all were destined to be cast down from.

Money.

After the divorce, they'd had to flee, and go underground quickly. Mycroft was quite secure in his position at his job in the British Government, but said establishment had no incentive to extend its protective services to a small family of three.

They'd had enough money to make it for a year, to cover the hospital payment and the cost of a down payment on a house.

But it'd run out.

Now there was a serious problem. Their mother was much too shaken by the experience of her husband's betrayal to go out in public long enough to hold a job. Seraphine was too young, still months away from her tenth birthday at the time; Mycroft could only do so much.

So, the entire responsibility for providing for the family went to Sherlock.

He was still too young for anyone legal to hire him, and while he could easily, with some tricks, pass as older, a salary just wouldn't cover expenses. He'd spent weeks trying to find a way, growing increasingly desperate as they began to starve.

He turned to the black market, the seedy underside of every city; drug dealers, smugglers, prostitutes-

Nothing worked. Nobody could seem to bother themselves to train in an apprentice.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, refused to give up and die.

He forged his own path.

_I swear to uphold the three rules that follow, and may God himself strike me down if I disobey…_

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the rain hit his face.

_I swear to protect my comrades in the Brotherhood, and to never cause any one of them harm…_

He took in a breath, steeling himself.

_…To stay my blade and weapons from the blood of innocents whenever possible…_

He felt a raindrop creep down his sleeve and along his fingers, clinging delicately to them before falling.

Fingers, he thought, that had taken the lives of so many…__

…To hide in plain sight, and walk unseen among those who are protected by their ignorance…

He opened his eyes.

_…and to never forget, this law that reigns over others, to be remembered at all times…_

"Nothing is true," Sherlock whispered. "And everything is permitted."

He climbed the wall, ascending quickly to the roof and peering through the glass panel of the sunroof.

Dante Perin sat at a small table below, talking with someone- _clearly a man asking for a firearms shipment, look how he fidgets with his hand-_ rather animatedly.

Sherlock knelt on the edge of the shingles, waiting.

It was vaguely possible to read their lips- or, properly, deduce what they were saying from body language, hand motions and other assorted cues.

_"Goddamn it, Perin. I wanted the rifles seven weeks ago! And here you sit and say that you can't get the fucking shipment through-"_

"Calm yourself, Salvatori."

"I won't fucking calm down!" Sherlock's eyebrows raised as the one who was apparently named Salvatori stood, pacing. _"I've got a goddamn coup to organize and you keep dragging us down!"_

_SH162.0017:_ There's someone here. Salvatori. Staging a coup somewhere. Rifles are involved.

_EH161.28:_ Duly noted. Do you have anything more?

_"Sit down, Antonio,"_ Perin sighed.

_SH162.0017:_ Antonio Salvatori. Very animated and… passionate about his arguments.

_"Fuck you, Dante."_

_EH16.128:_ I'll pass it on.

_"I can't have seven dozen German sniper rifles manufactured overnight, you dumbass. It takes fucking time. Have some goddamn patience."_

_SH162.0017:_ Make sure you do. Seven dozen German sniper rifles, to be exact, are what Salvatori's after.

_EH161.28: _German?

_"Why did it have to be fucking German? They're a pain in the ass to reverse engineer, Antonio."_

_SH162.0017:_ Would you like me to transcribe the conversation they're having? It's not for delicate ears.

_EH161.28: _Could you record it? Are you getting any sound, or just reading it?

_SH162.0017:_ The lighting's not all that good.

_EH161.28:_ We can clean up the footage.

_SH162.0017:_ Yes, but it would rather reduce my reaction time as well. I'd take having to write this down from memory later- which will be a pain in the ass because Salvatori is really long-winded- than risking losing the little technology I have.

_EH161.28:_ As you say. You're the one on the mission; I can't properly make decisions from here.

_"You fucking Italians are all the same! You talk big, and then at the sticking point, you just slink away with your tail between your legs! I've had fucking enough of it, Perin! I'm done!"_

And with that dramatic little flare, Salvatori left the room- _but will return shortly, he's just stewing._

This is my chance.

_SH162.0017:_ I'm going for it.

In an instant, he drew a dagger, slamming the hilt of it into the sunroof.

Perin made a shocked noise as the glass shattered, shards falling around him; he hid his head under his arms, providing a perfect opportunity.

Sherlock flipped the dagger in his hand, jumping into the hole; in a quick motion, he transferred his moment into the blade, sending it plunging into Perin's spine, creating a massive, lethal gash as the bones in his arm were jarred nastily.

He covered Perin's mouth with his hand, muffling any sound the man might have made.

As hunter and prey met each other's eyes, Sherlock reclaimed the knife.

Aware of Perin's lips moving, Sherlock withdrew his hand.

"They sent you," the older man managed, drawing in breath with sharp gasps.

"Yes," Sherlock answered coldly. "When you aid the murder of the daughter of a Roman lord, it doesn't end well."

The smuggler snorted. "But are we that different, at the core?"

He watched, distantly, as Perin stilled. "No." He closed the man's eyes. _"Che miserie nascono dall'avidità."_ He stepped back. _"Requiescat in pace."_

He eyed the supports for the glass panes, wondering if they would provide a sufficient hold for his hands.

_…My name is Sherlock Holmes…_

He drew an eagle's feather from under his cloak, sheathing the knife, and dipped it into the pool of blood.

_…and I am an Assassin._

**

Translation of Sherlock's last rites to Dante Perin: _"What wretched things are born of greed… Rest in peace."_


	4. The Cargo of the Meneltarma

The Cargo of the Meneltarma

4

Looking over at the doorway- Salvatori had apparently stepped out to smoke a cigarette- Sherlock casually checked Perin's pockets.

He found a slip of paper, quickly unfolding it.

_Shipment record- ship 'Meneltarma', date Sept. 1, cargo as follows…_

_700 tactical sniper firearm barrels, 350 double-trigger mechanisms, 350 synthetic stocks, 400 long range {approved for up to a mile} scopes…_

"Shit," Sherlock muttered, stuffing the slip into his pocket. He delicately walked across the glass, reaching a bare spot of floor before daring to jump for one of the supports that supported the glass dome; his fingers barely managed to find a secure hold, but it was there.

It was easy to reach for the next, bracing his legs against the previous. He caught the ledge of the opening-

-and had a shard of glass stab clean through the fingerless glove he wore and deep into his hand.

_"Cazzo,"_ Sherlock snarled, instantly releasing his grip on that spot, leaving all of his weight resting on the other hand. _It had to be my right hand, of fucking course._

He seized the glass piece with his teeth, fully prepared to rip it out before thinking it through. Fortunately, his brain intervened.

_It'll cause more damage going out than in. You'll leave your blood at the crime scene, which will incriminate you. Not a good idea._

Hissing oaths low in his throat, Sherlock brought in his right arm, tucking his wounded hand against his chest; it was only thanks to incredibly rigorous daily training that he managed to pull himself up.

He managed to bring his shoulders level with the ledge before digging his right elbow into it, praying that the glass would hold; his fingernails clawed for the next strip of metal as he hooked a leg onto the top of the dome, pulling himself up.

He stood, gingerly stretching his left arm.

_That,_ Sherlock decided, _was not a very smart decision. Let's hope I don't end up crippled on both sides._

_And that I didn't cut any serious muscles in my hand…_

*

"Dante Perin is dead." Sherlock drew the bloodied eagle's feather from an inside pocket, dropping it onto the desk. "His wound is masked by numerous bloody glass shards arranged around his body, as I set them to be. The wound runs along his spine, and caused death inside of a minute and a half."

The man behind the desk tilted his head, his head resting on his hands. "And?"

"I found a shipment log on him," Sherlock added, drawing the bloodstained paper out of his pocket and tossing it on the desk. "The _Meneltarma,_ with a shipment sufficient to construct three hundred and fifty double-barreled sniper rifles, and massively upgrade fifty more. He was with a Spaniard, an Antonio Salvatori, who had expected a shipment of seven dozen rifles seven weeks ago. Salvatori was planning a coup, an uprising against somebody. He accused Perin of holding him back, then left the room, which is when I took action."

He turned to the other man who stood in the corner of the room. "I take it you find this satisfactory?"

The Roman noble walked to the desk, touching the feather as if it were a snake that would strike at any second.

"It feels right," he said softly. "But… but it does not bring back my Caterina."

_Caterina Sforza III,_ Sherlock's mind supplemented. _Age 14, rape and torture-murder. Police refused to investigate, so he comes to us._

For Sherlock, it had been just a touch more personal than the other contracts. Killing someone because they'd arranged for a bombing in which seven hundred people had died? It was easy to stay unattached.

To look at Caterina Sforza's picture, and see the way her hair- straight, long, soft chocolate-brown- gently flowed, the suppressed mirth in her blue eyes as she laughed at some forgotten joke, pale skin contrasting against her clothes…

And to see that young body mutilated, with horror in those eyes, her head thrown back at an unnatural angle…

_They broke her mind, her spirit, her heart, and her body. When she had nothing left, they took her life._

It was too much like Seraphine. Far, far too similar to Seraphine, and what might have- had almost- happened.

_What still could, if I fail to protect her, just for a minute._

It also served as a brutal slap in the face. Caterina Sforza had been only three months older than him.

_If she can die, so can I. But I already knew that. _

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Hmm?"

"You're dripping on the floor," the senior Assassin advised, straightening a stack of papers. "And you're starting to go into shock. Get your hand looked at, or take care of it yourself, one of the two. We need you functional. I don't want the intel on the Meneltarma shipment getting out."

"It was earlier this morning," Sherlock remembered.

_"Yesterday_ morning," the elder corrected. "Go get yourself patched up, get some sleep."

He shook off fatigue. "I-"

"Yes." The Roman pulled an envelope out of his jacket. "Payment. In full. You won't need to divide it with anyone; it's already been taken care of."

Sherlock stepped forward, taking it with his left hand, relieved. "Thank you."

"I'll arrange for a new pair of gloves for you," the Assassin added, nodding. "Yours are rather worn, and now you've got a good excuse to replace them."

Sherlock looked at his hands, examining the soft, fingerless gloves he rarely thought about anymore. They seemed to have merged with his sense of identity somewhere along the line, to the point where he never noticed their presence anymore.

He brushed a finger over the leather, vaguely curious about the spots where it'd been stained and stiffened by blood. Usually, he bothered to wash it out immediately, but there wasn't much of a point now.

"I really can't remember when I first got them," he murmured, flexing his fingers and philosophically examining the shard of glass still buried in his hand.

"Did it hit your blade? Is the mechanism damaged?"

"No."

"Good, then. Now go off and crawl into whatever corner you inhabit when you're not here. I'll contact you when something happens."

Sherlock nodded, exiting, then coming back to the doorway.

"If I might make one more request?"

"Certainly."

"I want the next kill. There's going to be more in the chain of people that were part of Caterina's murder. I want the next kill."

The elder raised his eyebrows.

"That can be arranged."

As the young Assassin left, the Roman watched him go.

"He's a fighter, that one."

"You have no idea," the elder said, leaning back in his chair. "He started his training with us when he was eight. If you ever see the scar he's got on his chest, he got that when he was twelve- massive internal trauma, hemorrhage, infection. They had to crack him open, do open heart surgery just to patch him together. His parents divorced, and he comes with his mother and sister to our beloved Firenze, where he not only recovers from his injuries but goes on to become the sole breadwinner of the family."

"What is he, fourteen?"

The assassin pulled out a cigarette from a drawer in his desk, lighting in and taking a deep breath of smoke before responding. "Three months younger than yours was. He's a survivor, our Sherlock. Always has been." He exhaled. "Always will be."

*

_When you are robbed of your voice, you learn to listen, to hear everything, to see it all and understand it. When you're separated from the world by a thin sheet of glass that never entirely goes away, you learn to look through it._

His eyes closed, listening intently for any sound inside the house, it was in moments like these that his mind wandered.

He remembered, vividly, going on a joint mission with another apprentice very early on in his career.

_"See him- he's cheating on his wife. Her, she's pregnant and going to let her husband know tonight. That girl over there- has had a huge crush on the boy walking next to her for six, scratch that, seven years, ever since they were small children, and he hasn't the faintest. She's resigned herself, you see, just caged herself in with her own hopelessness. If she just said something, she'd get to learn that he's got the same, but no, she thinks he only considers her a friend."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "People. They can be such idiots."

The other apprentice nervously glanced up and down the street, waiting for the target of their stakeout mission to show. "Shouldn't we be, you know, focusing?"

"He's not here. He won't be here for another eighty-seven minutes. He arrives at a specific time every day. Idiot."

"How the hell do you know all that?"

A wry half-smirk.

"I see everything. That is my curse."

_He nudged the apprentice's arm. "There, see him, over there? There's his second in command. Arrives an hour and a half before his master. He's late. Should be entertaining, their arguments are always interesting."_

It was about survival, Sherlock though, picking the lock on the window and slipping inside. That was the core of it, and everything else was peripheral.

That was what he told himself, anyway.

He slid the window shut, pausing for a moment to make sure he hadn't been heard; satisfied, he made his way to the kitchen, turning on the tap and running his hand under it while inspecting the wound.

Admitting that it was impossible to do so properly with his gloves on, and his gloves couldn't be removed with the glass shard in place, Sherlock sighed to himself.

He took a deep breath, gripping it firmly between his fingers.

Throwing aside logic for once and letting impulse rule, he ripped it out.

He was accustomed to pain, had gradually blocked out the fire-like agony coming from the specific spot, but this was a sharp spike of it the likes of which he hadn't encountered in a while. His hand instinctively clenched into a fist as a choked whimper clawed out of his throat, blood running fresh.

Hissing Italian obscenities through his teeth, Sherlock quickly pulled off the glove, the leather catching on the edges of the wound.

He wasn't exactly sure what language he was speaking in now- it was probably a bastardized mix of Italian, Latin and English.

Cleaning the wound, and rather unpleasantly dislodging what clots had managed to form, it revealed itself to be fairly serious; if he spread his fingers, he could clearly see two of the bones in his hand, a sickly yellow he was no stranger to.

He flexed his fingers slowly, ignoring the agony and sickening sensation of a severed muscle pulling; satisfied that he still had a range of motion, he opened the cabinet above the sink, fetching a disinfectant and washing out the cut before digging out a needle and thread.

_Damn right I'm a survivor,_ he thought, beginning the first stitch.

If the elder Assassin seriously hadn't thought that he'd stick close by and listen in on their conversation, he was losing his touch.

**

When I mentioned that little part about a _brotherhood_ in the oath that Sherlock was remembering in the previous chapter, I wasn't kidding.

Suggestions and prompts encouraged and welcome!


	5. Hashashin

_Hashashin_

5

_And then there were the fida'is of the Ismai'ili, the lowest in rank, but trained to become the Hashashin, the Assassins, monsters of the night…_

Completely engrossed, Seraphine turned the page.

_They were fearless, hunting in broad daylight. They stalked their prey with unrelenting determination and unmatched skill, and their talents in disguise were akin to those of shapeshifters. Syrian legend tells of a Saracen noble, who, upon realizing an assassin was hunting him, tripled his guard and only allowed his most trusted advisor into his chambers._

Five days later, the noble was dead. The advisor was never seen again.

She smirked.

_They were world-famous for their loyalty, a prime example being the challenging of Rashid ad-Din Sinan in al-Kahf, by Count Henry of Champagne. The count claimed to have the most powerful army and to possess the ability to defeat the Hashashin at any moment, as his force was ten times larger. Rashid replied that his own army was indeed the most powerful, and to prove it he told one of his men to jump off from the top of the castle in which they were. The man did. Surprised, the count had only to recognize that Sinan held the strongest army, because they did everything at his command, and Rashid further gained the count's respect._

_"I like to call it a leap of faith."_

"Leap of stupidity, more like."

Struck by the small fantasy, Seraphine raised her head, looking out the window in her room into the night.

Then she shook her head. The book had stated early on that the Hashashin had been disbanded by the end of the thirteenth century at the latest. There was no concrete evidence to refute the claim; hence, when everything impossible had been eliminated, what remained, by default, was now the truth, as nothing remained to oppose it.

_They also held a high code of honor, rarely resorting to suicide unless necessary, preferring to die by their enemy's hands…_

She flipped back to the previous paragraph.

_…and to prove it, he told one of his men to jump off from the top of the castle in which they were. The man did, and surprised, the count had only to recognize that Sinan held the strongest army, because they did everything at his command…_

_Leap of Faith._

A technique inspired by a piece of ancient text- her brother was exactly the type to do that sort of thing- or a special maneuver handed down and taught through the ages?

At the familiar sound of activity in the kitchen downstairs, she sprang up, holding her place in the book with her fingers and reopening it on her way down the stairs.

"Sherlock?" she called, her tone vaguely distracted as she read the paragraph again. "I found this book in your room, and I noticed something, so I wanted to ask you if you were inspired by it somehow…"

Then she looked up.

He quickly closed the cabinet door, turning to face her, raising his eyebrows casually.

He was distinctly ruffled, his hair looking like it had been played with by the wind, a slight frantic gleam in his eyes; the fingers of his left hand quivered slightly as he twitched in surprise.

_Were you so engaged that you failed to hear me coming?_ She looked him over carefully- he was in the clothes that he'd been wearing earlier that evening, but it was clear he'd just recently put them on- and he was paler than normal, only wearing his standard fingerless gloves on one hand-

_-and the other-_

"What happened?" Seraphine asked sharply, shutting the book with a _snap._

Sherlock blinked- obviously exhausted. "An oversight," he replied smoothly, hiding his hand- and its strip of white gauze wrapped around it- behind his back. "Carelessness on my part that will not be repeated again."

She stepped forward, coming closer to him, her head tilted slightly, like a fox listening for its prey beneath the snow. She stood before him, as if about to ask a question.

And she sprang, catching his wrist and twisting his elbow so he had no choice but to follow through with her motion; it gave her a better look at the wound, or more accurately, the bandaging for it; wrapping entirely around the hand, it suggested something major, probably on the palm, while the cleanliness of the cloth suggested something holding the cut together, like stitches, which narrowed the field.

Then going by the width of the bandage, as Sherlock always prepared for the slight bleeding that occurred with stitches, it was a cut about three inches long, a centimeter and a half wide and very deep-

He pulled his arm out of her grip in a sharp motion, unbalancing her.

"Don't steal things from my room," he ordered flatly, taking the book out from under her arm. "I don't exactly appreciate it. See that it doesn't happen again."

The one time he didn't lock the door on his way out, Sherlock thought, going up the stairs, the single _bloody_ time, was when his sister decided to go through it.

It was a lucky thing she'd only found the book, but even the book was too much.

He flicked to the page that showed signs of being held for longer than the others, trying to find what would have confused her.

He had to reread a few times, but eventually, after individually analyzing each sentence, he caught it.

"You really do still have quite a bit to learn if you still haven't figured it out," he murmured, closing the book and weighing it in his hand.

It was _thick,_ intensely so, nearly a thousand pages.

He gently ran a finger along the front cover, catching the false camouflage with his fingernail. It was easy to remove.

He brushed off the dust that had made its way between the shield and the actual cover, wanting to just hold it in his hands for once.

The jacket was leather, dyed a deep black, with gold leaf laid into it. The feature of the front cover was difficult to describe; the best he could think of was a triangle or diamond with the base rounded and the three remaining points flanging and spiking strangely, with a thinner curve underlining the base, like the sweep of a quill under a signature.

Which was probably exactly what it was.

Under that, in a variety of calligraphic glyphs of different languages, it all boiled down to the same thing:

_On the Hashashin, the Assassins, and Their Successors_

Sherlock sighed quietly, pulling the glove off of his left hand on a whim and fisting his hand so that the skin would stretch.

Quite clearly, on the back of his hand, jet black against the pale alabaster of the natural tone of his skin, was the flanged diamond.

**

Well, Seraphine's starting to catch on, but she's really too willing to doubt herself yet to push the borders of the possible and ask if it's possible for an ancient order historically proven to have disbanded to still exist. Meanwhile, Sherlock has every intention of not letting her know.

And during all that, a thousand-page book becomes light reading. The "flanged diamond" is the Assassin insignia from _Assassin's Creed._ Bloody thing really is impossible to describe.

Well, I just got over the internet being angry, as chapter four was actually done like three days ago and I tried to post it then. Now it feels wrong to post two in a day, so…

Yeah, you guys are just going to starve. Sorry 'bout that.

_(Note written on Saturday, 1/5/13, 1:30 A.M. Central Standard Time)_

{Suggestions/prompts welcome as well!}


	6. The Quandary of Venice

The Quandary of Venice

6

"Venice," Sherlock said flatly. "You want me to go to _Venice."_

"Venezia to some," the elder Assassin replied placidly.

Sherlock turned sharply, his cloak flaring slightly. "You've previously never had me go further from Firenze than I could travel in a single night."

"That was before you requested the next kill in a long chain. A chain that goes to Venice."

He leaned onto a table, bracing himself. "You know why I'm doing this, Giuseppe," he murmured, addressing his superior by his name for once. "You know why I'm so reluctant to leave Florence."

"Your fears are unfounded."

In an instant, Sherlock stood, vibrating with fury. "They're not," he snarled murderously. "And I've got scars to prove that they aren't."

Giuseppe sighed, burying his ace in his hands. "I know. I just said that to get a reaction out of you."

"Bastard," Sherlock hissed through his teeth, leaning back against the table.

"This is a very real problem. We could have a serial killer on our hands, one who targets a specific type. Maybe Caterina Sforza was only a prelude to your sister. Maybe she was bait to lure you out of Florence so they could strike here. Maybe our enemies have caught our scent, and even as we speak, hunt us as we have them."

"All that you have said has already crossed my mind."

"Yes." The elder Assassin's hands fell to the desk. "And yet we _need_you to go to Venice. You started your training when you were eight, three to four years earlier than anyone else. You see things nobody else does, and our ways are so natural to you it's like breathing. Every time you walk into a room you scope out methods of escape and things to use as weapons while assessing various threats. You are among the most skilled killers I have ever seen, have the pain tolerance of a machine, and yet you play the violin and have a sister four years younger than you that you would happily die for."

Giuseppe muttered something too quiet for Sherlock to hear. "You're bloody impossible to make sense of, you know that?

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Thank you."

"And your sister. What was her name again- Sarah?"

That twitched became a full, warm smile. "Seraphine," Sherlock murmured.

"Seraphine," Giuseppe repeated. "Nobody in your family is capable of having a normal name, are they?"

"Not quite, no."

Giuseppe tapped his fingers on the desk. "I expect you remember our three laws, and their maxim?"

"Of course." Sherlock straightened. "I remember my oath exactly."

"Repeat it to me."

He took a breath.

_"I swear on my blood and honor to uphold the laws that follow, and may God himself strike me down if I disobey. I swear to hide in the midst of the crowds, stalking my prey as they remain unaware, shielded in my hunt by those who themselves are protected by their ignorance. I will hold myself to a higher level than our enemies and stay my blade from the flesh of innocents. Above these, I swear to never bring harm to my comrades in the Brotherhood, to never betray any one of them and to die before revealing their secrets. And above all else, where others are blinded by faith and lies, I will remember that nothing is true. Where others are bound and caged by society's false rules, I will remember that everything is permitted. I swear to uphold and honor the glory of the Hashashin, and our legacy."_

He met Giuseppe's eyes.

_"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I _am_ an Assassin."_

"And so are the words that have been spoken for a thousand years, and will be spoken for a thousand more," Giuseppe said softly. "It is interesting, to look at the ways we have evolved over the centuries. Both of us know how to use firearms as small as a man's fist, and we speak in different languages and styles than our ancestors. And yet our roots are as visible as daylight. _Laa shay'a waqi'un-"_

_"-moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine."_

"I imagine that if it struck your fancy, you could hold this entire conversation in Arabic if you wanted to."

"I imagine so."

"And we ourselves are a paradox. You play a Stradivari like a master, and I've seen the same hands that are so skilled on a violin's strings break a man's neck."

Sherlock shrugged. "He was going after one of my companions while we were on a mission. He had to die. I didn't see a need to bloody my blade."

"Or deny yourself the feel of fiery fury flowing through your veins at the sight of one of your brothers in danger? The savage joy of killing a man with your bare hands?"

Another shrug. "It's the most important law, the one that takes precedence over the other two. _Never allow a comrade in the Brotherhood to come to harm._And I had my gloves on," he added derisively. "The Djinn's blood never touched my hands."

Giuseppe smiled briefly. "Of course not."

There was a silence between the two who had made taking the lives of dark-hearted men the work of their own, both sworn to hold to that path until they died.

It was a powerful bond, one that filled the silence with memories of blood and vengeance.

"I'll watch over her."

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie.

"What?"

"Seraphine. While you're in Venice, I'll watch over her. She'll never see me, never suspect a thing, and there won't be a single second when she is unprotected."

He opened a drawer in the desk, pulling out a feather and setting it on top.

"If you accept."

Sherlock stepped forward uncertainly, resting his fingertips on the feather's shaft.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

Giuseppe smiled sadly. "Very."

"Absolutely certain?"

"You said it yourself. It's the third law, and the one with the highest penalties. Never allow a comrade in the Brotherhood to come to harm. You're one of us, aren't you? Her death would cause great harm to you. And you are not the only one affected by Caterina Sforza's murder." He paused, not having meant to say that. "You're not the only one afraid of losing someone," Giuseppe added softly.

"Oh?"

"My son is already in Venice. He has been fully informed of everything we know, and will be your companion if you go."

Intrigued, Sherlock absently tapped his fingers on his thigh. "How old is he?" he asked, purely out of curiosity, realizing he'd never thought to ask before.

It had taken weeks, Giuseppe thought, for Sherlock to trust him fully. Now, a casual question like that went without conscious thought.

"A year and a half older than you."

Sherlock picked up the feather, holding it to the light.

"Take good care of her for me, will you?" he asked quietly.

"As if she was my own," Giuseppe promised.

His eyes had never left the feather; he pocketed it now.

"Keep an eye on my son for me. He likes to get into trouble, much in the same way as you." Sherlock's lips curved at the remark.

"As if he was my brother," he pledged, dipping his head and pressing his fingertips to his throat in an ancient gesture of respect for an honored superior. He turned, in the manner of a soldier dismissed by his master.

"…Thank you, Giuseppe," Sherlock added, almost silently, as he left.

"The honor is mine," the elder Assassin murmured as his fellow disappeared.

He brushed his fingers over the back of his left hand, where under the fingerless glove, the flanged diamond resided.

_Brotherhood,_indeed.

Suggestions and prompts encouraged, and please do review.


	7. Venetian Crusade

_Venetian Crusade_

7

"But _why? _I don't understand-"

"I don't expect you to. You won't."

"But-"

_"Seraphine."_

_"Sherlock!"_

He sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"I can't tell you," he said quietly. "I… This is not for you to know."

"And yet it is for you only?" She crossed her arms, mustering a cold glare into the frosted-green eyes that were exactly like his. "I find _that_ hard to believe, _brother._"__

He met her challenge with the thing that he knew would strike home. Not fury, not a challenge in return.

Complete ice.

"I told you to ask me again when you are certain you want to know the answer," he replied in a tone that was almost… _commanding._ "And this is not that time."

Seraphine blinked, the tension keeping her muscles tight visibly fading.

This wasn't the voice of her brother, her companion, her closest friend- this was the voice of her _elder_ brother, the one who protected her and raised her singlehandedly. This was the voice of _authority,_ an order delivered and made powerful by its rarity.

"Don't you trust me?" he asked softly. "I promise, I _will_ explain, someday. But not now. Have I ever brought you down the wrong path?"

She closed her eyes, defeated; her hands fell to her sides.

"No." She took a breath. "But… why do you have to go?" And now her tone was no longer firm and challenging, daring and bold.

It was quiet and soft, a child's plea.

He'd been packing things into a bag for his journey, she standing by the doorway in his room, but now he stood, walking to her, and dropping to a knee in front of her so that they could look each other in the eye directly.

"I'm needed in Venice," Sherlock murmured, resting his hands on his shoulders. "There's something that needs to be done, and I'll take care of it and come home."

Her fingers curled around his wrist.

"I don't want you to go," she whispered, her other hand brushing along his cheekbone and resting on the spot between his neck and his shoulder, where the violin often rested. "And what if…"

"You'll be safe," he said. "I swear on it, you'll be safe. He won't find you. Nothing will happen. I'll come back to you, soon."

The pain in her eyes, even though he only saw it for a moment, cut into his heart as she fell to her knees, burying her face in his chest.

As he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, her frame shuddered.

"Please," she begged, her voice quivering- "If I've ever asked anything of you, anything… please don't go."

She was so _small,_ Sherlock thought, kept thin- like him- by how little money there was. What little heft there was to her body was mainly muscle developed and maintained by travelling with him across the city, with nothing left to spare.

He'd taught her how to fight, how to kill, and yet the power and raw advantage of size was something he himself had learned would outdo all but the very best combatants…

It came down to trust, didn't it, and faith? Taking a leap of faith, and entrusting his sister's safety to someone else for the first time.

"I don't want to."

**

_Hshhhhhhhhhhh-_

_-p'dik_

As the train gave a small jump- most likely ran over a rock or something, his groggy mind recognized- Sherlock snarled quietly as his elbow banged against the seat in front of him, causing his wounded hand to move slightly and the bandage to pull on the stitches.

He cracked an eye, pulling his hand closer to his chest again, peering at the world, albeit sideways. Deciding that it was nothing in particular to be worried about, he adjusted his bag slightly, making it a slightly more comfortable cushion for his head, having opted to try to catch a bit of sleep during the train ride.

_We will be arriving in Bologna in ten minutes…_

"Damn," Sherlock muttered. For once, could technology be a bit less adept, and Italian high-speed trains a bit less so?

It jumped again, violently, jarring his shoulder nastily.

"Damn it," he repeated, bracing a leg against the back of the seat in front of him. Didn't they have people who were paid to make sure the bloody tracks stayed clear?

_"We will be arriving in Bologna in ten minutes…"_

Sherlock covered his eyes with his forearm, sighing wearily.

At least the ride from Bologna to Padova was slower. From Padova, it was a straight shot on another high-speed train to Venice.

Resigned, he sat up, hooking his fingers on the strap of his bag and pulling it over his shoulder.

*

He was so blessedly close- so _damn_ close- to sleep when the mobile, kept in a small pocket on the bag under his head in case of just such an event, chirped and vibrated violently.

"One minute of sleep is all that I ask for, but _no,_ the poor Assassin isn't allowed it," Sherlock muttered, unzipping the pocket and pulling it out.

His irritation, however, faded instantly when he saw the message.

_So, how are things going beyond the shadow of the Union Jack? –L_

His fingers flew over the keys.

_I thought you'd forgotten about me. Out of sight, out of mind, you know. You never call, you never write. My heart aches at the lack. –SH_

_Not yet. Now, to answer my question, what're you doing?_

Heading to Venice. Got a contract there.

Venice? Why Venice?

He considered how best to explain.

_Have you heard the name Caterina Sforza?_

A pause.

_Daughter of a Roman noble. Fourteen. Rape and torture-murder. You're in on that? We've been called in? Vengeance mission?_

Retribution.

She sort of looked like…

Yeah. She did. After they were done with her, she didn't.

You saw the body?

Yeah.

How bad?

Really bad. It was beyond anything else I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot.

God knows. How many of them are in it? Is there anything you want me to watch for on this end?

Not yet. But keep an eye out, guard your back.

As always. I rarely do anything else.

How is London faring, besides wanting for my presence?

V misses you horribly, still. M has hacked my mobile and is watching our conversation. Bloody git.

And?

Your brother is a complete and utter idiot.

Knew you'd get there eventually.

A pause.

_…Any idea where you'll go next?_

He closed his eyes for a second.

_No. After Venice, anything could happen. It could be the end of the chain, or the beginning of it. Rome. Tuscany. Forlì. Monteriggioni. Or anywhere else- Greece, Syria- they'd think it so very ironic to go to Masyaf- Ireland, Germany, Switzerland, England. Evil knows no borders. The possibilities are infinite._

It'd be… nice. If you came back to London.

I know.

It's been two years. It sounds so small an amount of time, but it feels like forever. The city isn't the same. The skies seem just a bit duller. And…

…I miss the sound of your voice. You could be so irritating at times, but I miss the sound of your voice.

I know.

I miss you.

..I know.

A long pause, where an old ache quietly pulled at his heart.

_…Safety and peace._

The same to you.

**Your partner has gone offline. Messages sent will be received when they return-**

Sherlock locked the device with an overly forceful motion of his hand, then, regretting the brutality, pressed it to his collarbone.

"I know," he whispered, watching Italy fly past in the dark. "I miss you, too. I miss London. It sounds so weak, but I do."

_You won't be the same, even if you do end up going back,_ a voice in his head told him. _You've been sworn to the Order, condemned to be an Assassin for your entire life._

No, Sherlock objected vehemently. _It was voluntary. I _chose_ the Brotherhood. And that makes every difference._

**

_Up next: Chapter Eight, "A Man Named John Watson". In brief, we see Seraphine missing her brother, and get quite a bit of backstory as well._

This was originally going to include that, but I decided it was taking too long.


	8. A Man Named John Watson

A Man Named John Watson

8

It seemed colder than usual.

It struck her suddenly, as she adeptly dropped to a knee, delicately fiddling with the lock on the door. The air seemed even colder than usual, somehow, biting at her skin in a way she hadn't previously noticed.

Maybe, she mused as the lock clicked, it was because every bit of her knew that he wasn't there, that her constant companion was gone.

Because she was alone, stripped of the knowledge that just a short distance away, someone was there.

Someone who would do anything for her.

She opened the door.

His room still carried his scent.

She'd done this once before, Seraphine mused, closing it behind her and relocking it; when, two years ago, he'd been in the hospital, she'd slept in his room.

Now, entirely incapable of feeling safe in her own, she'd chosen to do so again.

It was a smell that was hard to describe, she thought, inhaling deeply and taking it into her lungs. The best way to put it was a rich undertone, solid and dark, something that equated _strength_ in her mind; overlaid by a second flavor, a touch lighter but more complicated, having a hundred different components: _brother, protector, friend, leader._

With the slightest hint of violin rosin, a twist of sharp, dusky pine-scent that oddly, her mind had translated to _warrior._

With a sigh, she crawled onto his bed, simply lying there face-down for a moment.

And a soft, weaving, golden thread, she concluded, that was essentially _Sherlock: _safety.

Suddenly exhausted, she pulled the covers over herself, burrowing like some sort of rodent. The restless portions of her mind contented, she was on the verge of falling asleep when she shifted slightly and what felt like a small piece of paper brushed against her cheek.

Curious, she dug into the pillowcase and retrieved it.

_There's a book under the mattress, in case you still can't sleep, and a knife in the false top on the dresser. It's plenty sharp enough to cut through anything you can find, and the grip should fit your hand. Feel free to keep it._

_-S_

"Am I really that obvious?" Seraphine asked, grinning and rolling over to reach under the mattress.

Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it was certainly worth staying awake for.

Especially when sleep was a thing often haunted by strange, twisted demons.

_*_

The heat was like a fire, the air vibrating with it. The masses assembled cheered as up on the gallows, a man, a sword on his belt and wearing heavy armor, lifted an arm while walking in front of the bodies that hung.

A guard stood at his side, the studs in the leather portions of his own armor shining like diamonds, and another at the top of the stairs the damned had walked. Above, a falcon stood on the spot where the beam the ropes attached to joined with its support.

It screeched, spreading its wings and taking flight, passing by a tower whose bell stood still.

And by the bell, hidden in its shadow where nobody thought to search, a man stood, a soft breeze pulling at the white robe he wore, a red sash stark against the paleness and dripping down towards the earth like blood.

White, the man thought, smiling slightly; idolized as the color of innocence, the symbol of all that was good and bright.

The bell rose, ringing loudly, the sound echoing over the crowd.

When it fell, the man was gone.

Now he stood in the crowd, considering the man strutting like a peacock on the gallows, the bodies turning slightly as the ropes twisted with the wind. He started forward, pushing people out of his way gently at first, then shoving them roughly as he got closer.

His enemy spotted him, and with a sharp cry, pointed; the white-robed man lunged, sinking the blade of a dagger into the guard's stomach, using it to shove him off of the platform and throwing a knife at the other.

Using the first body as a springboard, he jumped into the air, pulling back his left arm, a blade springing from the mechanism on his wrist-

Even as the executioner turned, his hand flying to his sword, he barely started to draw it before the blade bit into his throat.

The man held his position for a moment, looking eerily like a bird of prey crouched over its quarry as the shock rippled through the mass of people.

Gently, he brushed his right hand over the man's eyes, closing them and murmuring softly in Arabic, the fingers of his left hand curling almost lovingly over the blade as he pulled it away and retracted it.

He looked over his shoulder, squinting slightly against the sun, alert: more guards had begun to rush onto the stairs leading to the platform, having collected themselves for an assault as the crowd began to scream.

The man easily jumped off of the platform as the soldier at the front lifted his sword; he easily evaded it, the steel biting deep into the wood he had just stood upon.

He took off at a sprint, his speed nearly superhuman, jumping onto a beam and grabbing a small outcropping in the stone of the building beside it as the guard posted there had barely begun to react; he made it to the roof, and heard the ones from the main square assailing the other with their frantic demands.

He lunged to the next roof, the motion as easy as breathing, and savored a soldier's look of shock.

He jumped off of the roof, onto another soldier, plunging the hidden blade into his throat; then, the guards nearly upon him, he ran to a massive double set of doors, the church impressive in its glory.

The Assassin slowly turned around, smirking to himself as the guards pointed their weapons at him.

The doors opened.

Scholars, their robes white like the Assassin's, poured out.

And the avenger became a blade in the crowd, hidden in plain sight.

_**_

_"Your stores are limited, and you cannot hold out forever. How long will your men remain loyal in the face of death?"_

The image was blurred, hazy and indistinct, but vaguely, as like a sight viewed through a thick fog, some things could be discerned.

The sun, again burning like a fire well-fed, threw a warm glow over the world; the wind blew softly, pulling at his robes and making him bring his shoulders slightly forward, distributing his weight in a way that resisted being blown off of his perch.

In the distance, mountains flanged boldly.

_"My men do not fear death, but welcome its embrace."_

_"Then they shall receive what they desire."_ The next word was too indistinct to be sure of, but he was relatively sure about the next:

_"Bring forth the hostage."_

Only a few things were sensible to him, but they were enough.

The flash of steel.

A cry of pain, cut short.

The sound of many voices, dismayed.

The second voice spoke again, fuzzing into obscurity before clarifying again.

It was an order, directed towards him, in a tone that rang with vengeful fury.

_"Show him the true meaning of loyalty."_

He flexed his left hand, feeling the familiar tension of the hidden blade's mechanism on his finger- oddly, only on the left, and looking to that side.

_"Follow me without hesitation,"_ a new voice said, closer than the other two that echoed as if from a slight distance.

And suddenly, the jump: the familiar exhilaration of diving like a bird before landing securely in a strategically placed pile of straw.

A sharp scream, barely human.

_"My leg!"_ A sound of pain, from a difference source than the previous words, but just as close. _"Ah, my leg!"_

_"Quiet,"_ the more familiar one hissed to the newer. _"Or-"_ again, the words were muddled- _"will hear us."_

The sickening crunch of a broken bone, as the man's cries subsided to whimpers.

_"I'll stay behind and tend to him. You'll have to go ahead without us. The ropes there will bring you to a trap we've set. Go and release it. Rain death upon our enemies."_

Walking across the ledge, then calmly stepping onto the beam; reaching another shelf of stone, and another, then crossing the third beam at a quick trot before coming to the wall of the fortress- _citadel?-_ and knowing instinctively where the built-in spots that would hold his weight were located.

It was child's play to climb it, reaching the top of the tower as easily as a cougar would kill a rabbit.

Time seemed to skip from pulling himself up to standing at the edge of the guard's station, his sword raised, the blade gleaming gold-

He slashed at the post, metal cutting wood like paper, and-

_"We will be arriving in Verona in five minutes."_

"Fuck," Sherlock said bluntly, waking up with his face somehow pressed into his bag. He straightened, stretching his shoulders- it was no small accomplishment for someone six feet tall to cram himself into an agonizingly small space.

A strange dream, he thought, absently rubbing at his eyes and blinking several times to verify that he was, indeed, awake. The Middle East, if he wasn't mistaken, in ancient times.

Strange.

But, he reminded himself, pulling the strap of his bag over his shoulder, an extremely out-of-the-blue vision about what might have been a siege on Masyaf had no bearing on the present.

The fact that the train was slowing down did.

_*_

An angel of death, he might have been called- _Malik al-Mawt_ in the Arabic that he was fluent in- if anyone troubled themselves to learn his story.

But if anyone saw the man- young in years, but he'd already seen more than most ever would- they took no notice.

He preferred it that way.

A nondescript black cloak covered his frame, tailored specifically for him but still slightly loose on his shoulders and waist, rippling when the wind pulled at it and blending perfectly into the pitch darkness of that specific part of Venice.

The tip of the hood flanged out into a point rather like an eagle's beak, an odd symbol integrated seamlessly into it, laid into the fabric with the same care and skill as a jewel set into a ring: an odd hybrid between a triangle and a diamond, the corners spiking into sharp points.

Equally sharp green eyes glowed from underneath it, scanning their surroundings and waiting.

While his body was on full alert, a large part of his mind was disconnected, wandering from thought to thought.

_White robes, modeled after ceremonial- or vice versa. Not as heavy decorated as ceremonial, lacking quite a few touches._

The original model: ancient Levantine.

_Blazingly hot temperatures, stone buildings, the accents, the language, the look of that crowd-_

The Middle East, obviously.

_The architecture, the weaponry- swords, not guns. The armor- leather, chainmail, plates of steel._

The Middle Ages: somewhere around eleven or twelve hundred fit well.

_Gallows, masses cheering their approval, a bell tower, a scholars' building._

Even assuming the previous conclusions to be correct, there was still insufficient data; that could be anything from Damascus to Jerusalem, or Acre, Arsuf, or any other of dozens of cities.

_A castle-village under siege; a citadel, mountains. A river, and the voices- perhaps Rashid ad-Din Sinan and someone else. The shortcut meant for someone adept at free-running and parkour:_

_shamefully obvious._

Masyaf, Syria.

At that moment, the wind blew into his face, causing him to grimace.

Venice really did leave something to be desired, scent-wise.

Down the canal- and they'd been a bloody pain in the ass to traverse, the canals, when you didn't want to use the streets for fear of being seen- something splashed.

The Assassin looked towards the sound sharply, the motion echoing an eagle's.

Again, it came, allowing for further analysis, a separation of one-time-only variables and recognition of steadier ones, and once that was done, the answer was quite obvious-

_The oar of a gondola dipping under the water, rising, falling again. It's not exactly the right time of day for tourists, and it's a bit cold out, so-_

"They never exactly told me a set password," the Assassin called, delicately twirling a dagger between his fingers, just in case. "So if you have any ideas, I'm plenty willing to go along with them."

The rowing paused, then picked up again.

"What about the default?" came the reply.

_London accent with a touch of Florence- just like me._

"Laa shay'a waqui'n moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine," the one in the gondola offered.

_"For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world,"_ the Assassin replied: _"against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of God, and the shield of faith, wherewith you shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked."_

The gondolier stared, making it necessary for the first to bend down and grip onto the edge of the boat, bracing himself as its momentum tried to drag him off of his ledge.

"The cardinals' chant, from the December 1499 infiltration of il Vaticano by Ezio Auditore da Firenze."

As the Assassin casually stepped into the gondola, its commander snapped back to reality, countering with his weight and preventing the boat from overturning.

"I know what it is," he managed to say, "but how the _hell_ can you recite it word for word off the cuff like that?"

The first shrugged nonchalantly. "He's an ancestor of mine," he replied, as if that explained everything.

The other returned to a state of shock.

"Sherlock Holmes," the first added, offering his hand.

"John Watson," the other said numbly, taking it.

And then-

"Wait. _Holmes?"_

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, mentally preparing himself for the standard inquisition as he took a seat.

"Like-"

"Consider who might be listening before you finish that sentence." He paused. "Or, at least have the _tact_ to not scream it out. It's not as if everyone important doesn't already know."

John glanced around, then lowered his voice.

"…Like the Mentor?"

Sherlock sighed again, turning around so he could face his companion.

"My grandfather. On my father's side. Most of my notable ancestors are on that side; my mother was a first-generation recruit."

His face was a study in awe, but as if nothing important had passed between them, John began to row the gondola again.

"Your bloodline's nearly extinct, isn't it?" he asked. "Your father-"

"Still alive, contrary to popular belief, and that much more unfortunate for the world. Believe me, I'd love nothing more than a chance to shove a knife between his ribs."

There was a pause as this information was absorbed, then Sherlock spoke again.

"They'll have you believe that I started my training when I was eight, but that's not quite true. It started when I was four, before my sister was born. And I do have a few cousins- have you ever heard of Clay Kaczmarek?"

John shook his head.

"And as for my ancestors…" Sherlock leaned back, his shoulders reaching the next seat in the gondola quite easily. "Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Mentor of the Levantine Assassins from 1191 to 1257. Ezio Auditore da Firenze, il Mentore of the Assassini of Italia from 1503 to 1512. Ratonhnhaké:ton," he added, delicately pronouncing the Mohawk name, "whose name almost everyone knows."

John looked confused. "Ratonhnhaké:ton?" he queried, botching the pronunciation.

_"Ra-doon-ha-kay-don,"_ Sherlock corrected, then grinned. "Nobody ever gets it right. Most people called him Connor- surname interchangeable between Kenway and Davenport."

John's eyes narrowed.

"Do that again."

Knowing exactly what he meant, Sherlock smirked, then bared his teeth obligingly.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton was famous for them," he explained as John leaned forward, peering at the two extra, sharp-looking fanglike teeth just behind his top two front incisors. "I've always had them, so even though you can't imagine it being comfortable, it's equally strange for me to imagine being without them."

John straightened. "But don't you bite your tongue all the time?"

"Don't you bite yours without a marker of where to keep it from going past that spot?"

"But they look _sharp."_

"So do yours."

"Yours don't go through the regular abuse that mine do, though. They'd stay sharper because there's nothing to dull them."

"Who says they don't get any use?"

John raised his eyebrows.

"It's really rather elementary to catch them on something, and even easier to do so accidentally. I didn't figure out a perfect method until I was about six. My sister inherited them as well, but my brother didn't."

"Brother?"

Every muscle in his body tensed.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied stiffly. "Mycroft Holmes."

_Not one of us._

He focused on the sound of the gondola's oar dipping under the water, rising, creaking, falling again.

It was extremely calming.

Even with that, though, a phantom pain spiked through his chest, following along his scar and digging claws into his ribs.

"Holmes," John repeated. "Yeah, I remember now, I know that line. Wasn't there another one… what's his name…"

Sherlock waited.

"…Daniel Cross?"

Sherlock's hands instantly clenched into fists, an instinctive twitch causing both hidden blades to lock into position, the moonlight glinting on the metal. His jaw tightened, his entire body visibly tensing.

"Daniel Cross," he repeated. "It's not his real name- I mean the one he was born with when I say that- but only a few people remember it now, and he's not among them. Grandson of Innokenti Orelov. Great-grandson of Nikolai Orelov.

"Nikolai Orelov," John repeated, pushing against the oar. "I know that name."

"Tunguska," Sherlock said simply, working on relaxing each of his muscles individually as he waited for John to work it out.

There were perhaps a few people in the world that deserved what had been done to Daniel Cross.

Daniel himself had been among the last of them.

"Tunguska," John repeated. "I can't think of it right now. Just so you know, the Venetian bureau has a female rafiq," he added. "Just remembered."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "I fail to see the connection between the largest explosion in history and a woman being a rafiq. If you think I care, I don't."

"Not saying you do, but she's really feminist about it. I mean verging on bitchy. As in dominant lesbian bitchy."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Well, then, let's see what happens when she meets someone who's honestly up and beyond giving a fuck what she thinks."

_**_

No offense, whatsoever, meant to LGBT communities.  



	9. Filthy Half-Breed

_Filthy Half-Breed_

9

"Here it is, then," John announced, sticking out the oar of the gondola so that it struck a stone and stopped. "The Venetian bureau. It's not much, but it's enough."

"It's perfect," Sherlock murmured, stretching his shoulders, stiff from sitting in one position for so long. "It blends in. It's nondescript, forgettable. Only notable feature is that it's built out of stone in Renaissance style. Something that tourists take pictures of, nothing more."

As Sherlock stood, John shrugged. "There's not much else to be said for it. It could be better, and there's certainly plenty to be desired."

Stepping off the boat, Sherlock looked back at him. "Like what?"

Holding part of the rope in his teeth as he tied off the gondola, it took John a moment to reply.

"The only heat comes from a fire. The water heater doesn't have that good of a capacity, the sleeping quarters are below subpar, and the floor is cold as ice."

He straightened, stepping off of the boat, then raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's expression.

"What?" he asked. "You have a different idea?"

"I consider a roof over my head to be sufficient. Whether or not it leaks is irrelevant."

Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door.

He was familiar enough with the workings of the Florentine bureau to know that before going beyond just inside the door, or before even breathing, to avoid a sudden, painful death, he had to identify himself.

He raised his left arm, forearm and bicep forming a perfect right angle as he clenched his fist, the hidden blade snapping into position.

"Sherlock Holmes, from the bloodline of the same name," he said quickly.

"Where from?" someone challenged.

"Firenze," he replied. "Originally London."

"Mother?"

"Siobhan Holmes."

"Father?"

"Kerran Holmes."

The silence following the reply was tense as Sherlock retracted his blade, lowering his arm.

"Grandfather, Edmund Holmes," he added, in an attempt to redeem himself.

That got their attention.

"Other relatives?"

"Sister, Seraphine. Brother, Mycroft; cousin, Clay Kaczmarek."

"Kaczmarek," another joined in. "I know him. We were on a mission together in Germany a few weeks back. Good man. Doesn't lag behind and let someone else do all the work, isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Fought like a rabid wolf when one of our team members was cut off from the group and was going to be killed. I've never seen a man move that since before or since."

"That would be him," Sherlock confirmed.

"Anyone else of note in your family?"

He didn't bother trying to keep himself relaxed.

"Daniel Cross. Also known as Subject Four."

The quiet that followed the name was so thick with pity that it was like having a rag shoved down his throat.

"He's no traitor," a voice came, breaking the silence. "A spy wouldn't have the guts to bring up… that. Get the boy something to eat… he looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over."

_**_

"It's just… hard to believe, you know?"

"I worked with him a few times back in Florence. Hard to believe you haven't, almost everyone has. Poor bastard never gets a break. His name gets thrown into every hat, it seems, and drawn every time."

John stood with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the bar. In a corner seat, Sherlock had been doing something on some sort of electronic device, but had become sufficiently distracted by the other boy- maybe four, seven years older than himself- providing background music by quietly playing a cello.

"The Florentice rafiq, the bureau manager, he's my _father_ and I'd never even heard Sherlock's name before this."

Sherlock seemed entirely entranced by the way the other boy absently plucked the cello's strings; then, suddenly, he turned to his bag, unzipping it and pulling out a violin.

"You've never heard his name?" the woman asked. "Do you live under a rock? _Everyone_ knows about what happened with his father-"

"He plays the violin," John murmured, ignoring the jab. "I wouldn't have thought it of him."

"-and if you think you know him, he's barely showed you anything of who he is," she added, reclaiming control of the conversation.

"What do you mean, _what happened with his father?"_

"He was abusive," she told him quietly, watching as Sherlock flicked his fingers over the violin's strings, then began a quick-paced accompaniment to the cello's melody. "Extremely so."

John swallowed, clenching his hand very deliberately, then releasing his grip, careful to not trigger his blade's mechanism.

"How bad?"

"There's no true line between levels of pain, is there? When the person who's supposed to be your mentor, your guardian, your protector, is your greatest enemy? If you look closely at his cheekbones, he's got deep scars from being backhanded by someone who was wearing a signet ring that had a sharp edge. The scar on his chest? He had open heart surgery when he was fucking _twelve_."

Despite himself, John shuddered.

"Why?"

"I managed to get into his medical records. The official ones list shattered ribs, massive internal trauma, bleeding and damage. Officially, it was an accident. I don't know what excuse they came up with, but our records say different."

As Sherlock walked over to the cello player and began a conversation, John wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to his next question.

"What _do_ our records say?"

Her hands fisted.

"Our records show evidence and witness accounts of an attack on Seraphine Holmes by her father, with every intent to kill. Sherlock threw himself between them and tried to defend her. He couldn't or wouldn't, say if he made contact with any of his weapons. What he remembers if being thrown up against the wall, feeling his bones breaking with the force of it, and pieces digging into his lungs. When we inspected his blade, there was fresh blood on it that wasn't his, and a trail going out the door, so something else happened. His older brother said that he had to convince the girl to hand him a knife she was holding, but he didn't see much. But when Sherlock was in the hospital, they found scars everywhere on him, and not just on his skin. He was hardly a stranger to hiding wounds."

Faintly nauseated, John watched as Sherlock lifted his violin, turning it for the cellist's inspection.

_It's a Stradivari- a hand-me-down that's been in my family for about a century._

His awe evident, the cellist edged closer. _Which one? Does it have a name?_

Sherlock smirked.

_Herkules._

_Isn't that the one that was stolen? Presumed destroyed?_

Yes, but you can't really believe what people tell you, can you?

He trailed a finger longingly down the side of the cello.

_Don't suppose you'd be willing to trade for a bit? I've always enjoying playing the cello, but I never get a chance these days._

The other stared.

_Pass up a chance to play a Strad? Do I _look_ insane?_

The instruments were exchanged; the cellist plucked one of the violin's strings, the walked away, clearly giddy with joy.

Sherlock brushed his hand down the cello's neck, then readied the bow in his hand.

The first two notes were low in tone, an experiment to accustom himself to the act.

And then it started, a set of rough, mournful notes that rose and fell, ending and fading into silence before starting again, and again, a bit different each time.

This continued for a while, finishing with first a lower set and then a replica of the first.

For a moment, John thought it was over, but then it started again, high and grieving.

And he understood: this was a song- no, a _story_ of a boy forced to kill, the confused undertones a self-portrait of their composer; the mourning a brief recognition of the sorrow of stolen innocence and a shattered childhood, but the brevity of that part, the haste given to it saying that that was the only thought this notion was allowed.

The long, final notes at the end, a realization, recognition, final statement:

complete resignation to an Assassin's fate.

It sent a chill down John's spine.

He had been born into the Brotherhood, chosen to be part of it for personal reasons, but he'd always, _always_ had a choice. And even now, if he wanted to, he could back out of it, break away and be done.

He planned, eventually, to do just that.

But here, he thought, was someone who _couldn't._ Who had never had a choice, and never would.

It was, after all, the only thing Sherlock knew. And the Mentor's heir was too important to let go, the bloodline too close to extinction, the family knowledge too rare. Who else had access to the information, the records, the absolute from-birth training that came with being born into _that_ family?

Who else had experiences that had prepared them so thoroughly to be ready for that?

_"I'm Sebastian, by the way,"_ the cello's owner said suddenly. _"Most people call me Seb."_

_"Where are you from?"_

_"Ireland, originally. I was born in Tulla, that'd be in County Clare. Then I moved to Dublin, then I was in England for a while, went through a few years of their school system before I headed out and eventually got transferred to Italy."_

_"My mother was from Tulla," _Sherlock mused. _"What's your last name?"_

_"My mother maiden name was Brody," _Sebastian said evasively. _"Sinead. Sinead Brody."_

Sherlock stared.

_"My mother had a twin named Sinead. Her name's Siobhan. Siobhan Holmes, née Brody. About a head shorter than me- maybe more by now. Long, curly red hair. Bright green eyes, pale white skin, and when she still would, a laugh like a hundred silver bells in the wind."_

For a long time, Sebastian was silent.

_"A small scar on the left side of her jaw, close to her neck?" _ he asked softly. _"About an inch, maybe an inch in a half long?"_

"Yes."

"She got it from-"

"She was nine, practicing climbing trees with the more efficient style introduced to the Order by Ratonhnhaké:ton. She missed a jump, fell, and a branch caught her on the way down. I'm told the wound bled like a sieve."

_"Aye,"_ Seb corrected. _"Bloody small world."_

_"When you're an Assassin," _Sherlock corrected. _"Some people fumble through their lives without ever seeing the bigger picture. Coincidence is extremely rare. When every impossible explanation has been eliminated, what remains must be the truth."_

John's companion looked towards him, at someone who had just walked up to his other side.

"Don't act like he deserves pity, Renata," the new woman spat coldly. "It's not like the filthy half-breed needs it."

John only stood there, shocked; across the room, Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He stood, and the room fell silent as he walked over.

"Say that again," he dared, and for the first time, John heard a cruel edge to his voice: the Mentor's heir, an Assassin in every way possible who took lives without a second thought.

"You know it's true," the woman said, calmly looking him in the eye. "Don't lie to me, half-blood: you _know_ it's true."

Sherlock glared at her. "So?" he challenged. "Who the fuck actually _cares?"_

"You know they all do. You _have_ to know that they all talk behind your back, that nobody trusts you, and you, and we're only tolerating you because the order came from on high and you're the _Mentor's_ grandson. You use that status every chance you get, don't you, use your bloodline for your advantage because it's the only thing you've got? That's the only reason you're still alive, you damned bastard spawn of a Templar.

John coughed suddenly. _"What?"_

Sherlock, subconsciously producing a furious wolflike snarl somewhere deep in his chest, gritted his teeth. "My father-"

"who was so kind as to butcher my entire family," the woman spat-

"Kerran Holmes was a Templar spy," Sherlock snarled: "And now he's the Grand Master's right hand."

_**_

_First cello-violin duet: "Beer and Friends", from the Assassin's Creed III soundtrack. Cello solo: "Desmond Miles", from Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood soundtrack._


End file.
